


Surface Tension

by notluvulongtime



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Origin Story, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 18:43:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4575582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notluvulongtime/pseuds/notluvulongtime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twelve year-old Sherlock will do anything to get out of playing football for his school, until he meets a force of nature named Greg Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Surface Tension

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mycitruspocket](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/gifts).



> This story is to fulfill the 2015 Rupert Graves Auction. mycitruspocket was generous enough to donate actual money for this fic and she wanted my version of Sherstrade with a meet-cute involving football. I had great fun trying to make this idea fit into canon and I hope she likes it. It can be read as shippy S/L or a paternal!Lestrade. 
> 
> Many thanks to [WastingYourGum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WastingYourGum/pseuds/WastingYourGum) for the brit-pick and [CoriMariee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CoriMariee/pseuds/CoriMariee) and [ImpishTubist](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist) for the pep talks.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters, duh.

*****

1988

He’d always hated being at the Sutton Grammar School for Boys, but not for reasons one would expect. Sherlock had long ago accepted that Mummy – even with her tenure at Oxford, teaching mathematics – could not afford public schools for _both_ of her genius sons and initially enrolled with a sense of hope. Even though his eleven plus exam score was a perfect and relatively rare 160, he was certain that Sutton was selective enough that he would be surrounded by like-minded children and for the most part, he was right.

No, it was really about something he would never be good at. He didn’t mind being competitive on an intellectual level, but when it came to sports, he wasn’t having any of it. Indoor rowing and cross country were pointless. Gymnastics was impossible. Cricket was silly. Badminton was ridiculous. Both tennis and table tennis were boring and rugby was barbaric. In the end, it was down to swimming and football, the former of which was out of the question once Mummy reminded him of the double-ear infections he’d always receive when they were on holiday in Devon.

Sherlock couldn’t just abstain; Mummy wouldn’t allow it. She’d already required Mycroft to go through his own team sports hell in Upper Sixth, so he wasn’t getting any sympathy on the sibling front. Father just smiled and went back to reading the paper, happily abstaining from the argument to begin with.

For weeks, as a kind of non-violent protest, Sherlock sat on the bench, preparing for the Physics Olympiad with a textbook he’d pinched from a Year 10 classroom, covered by a Year 7 cover to hide its true origins. He pretended he was deaf most of the time, ignoring when his name was called and/or purposefully doing badly or clumsily so that he wouldn’t be called on for anything.

But instead of shrinking into the background, as he’d initially hoped, the other players began to mock him, whispering loudly his new abhorrent nickname “Miss Shirleylocks.” Sherlock felt it beyond cruel that he should be bullied for something he simply could not change – his moppet of tight curls that no amount of ironing could straighten out even if he’d had time in the morning to do so. And therefore, he began to mentally give each bully their own nicknames. Brainless Wanker, Knob Head, and Weeds for Teeth were the ringleaders of his torment, firing the ball straight at him as he sat on the bench. And each time they kicked it his way, Sherlock was forced to put down his pencil and deflect the shot.

It was so loathsome and not worth his attention that Sherlock didn’t even realize someone had been watching until a voice called out to him from the other side of the field.

“Oy! You there!”

Sherlock squinted. A young man of perhaps (no, most definitely) twenty-five was conversing with the head coach. They appeared to be sharing information about him, since the man was looking directly at Sherlock while his lips were moving –

“Master Holmes, I need a word!” The head coach motioned him over.

Reluctantly, Sherlock closed the Physics tome and put away his study notes before trotting over to the adults.

“Sherlock,” the grey haired teacher indicated the man next to him, a man with an equally curly moppet of dark hair and a cheeky, dimpled grin. “This here is our new goalkeeping coach, Greg Lestrade. Greg, this is Sherlock Holmes, Year 7. Thinks he’s above all this – what did you call it, lad? ‘Brainless barbarism,’ I seem to remember. Maybe you can change his mind, eh, Greg? Good luck with that.”

*   *   *

All of his plans to be excluded from the team had been foiled and all because of this incorrigible streak of lightning on two legs who couldn’t just leave well enough alone. Greg had picked two other candidates for goalkeeper and made them go through a series of drills that were equal parts exhausting and pointless. Where was he going with the map of cones scattered up and down the field, forcing these children to weave in and out as though they were made of lava? Wasn’t the entire point of goalkeeping to stand in front of a portal that was two meters tall and seven wide? In fact, the first week or so was spent as far away from a goal or a ball as possible.

One afternoon, during a rather grueling set of sit-ups, Sherlock decided to just lie back and study the sun as it moved behind a few clouds rolling by, wishing he could just disappear and reappear at will in the same fashion. Until, of course, Greg’s impish mug moved into the foreground, staring down at the twelve year-old with more amusement than admonishment. In fact, that was what was so unnerving about the man; the fact that no amount of sass from Sherlock seemed to darken his mood. He took nothing but football seriously and even if the lad didn’t feel the same way, Lestrade took no offense.

“Master Holmes,” he grinned, “I think it’s time for you to defend our goal.”

Within minutes, Greg had the three candidates lined up in front of the netting with the intention of having them take turns catching or deflecting the ball with their bodies while he threw it their way. Yet, every time it was Sherlock’s turn, he’d barely move; his body was a coiled spring of indignation and anger. Anger at his mum for insisting he participate in something that he felt was entirely beneath him and a waste of his precious mind. And every instance he let the ball roll past and into the goal, he would smile cruelly at Lestrade, knowing that it was only a matter of time before his obvious contempt would wear away the resolve of his hapless teacher.

Suddenly, Greg turned and called out over his shoulder to the forwards practicing on the other side of the field. Specifically where Brainless Wanker, Knob Head and Weeds for Teeth were playing.

“Cameron, Edward, Liam!”

His tormentors looked over at Lestrade and nodded, ambling down the pitch with naughty grins on their sweaty faces when they’d realized who they’d be facing off with.

Greg lined up three balls, one in front of each forward, before motioning the other two goalkeeping candidates to move out of the way, leaving Sherlock alone, dead center in front of the goal.

So this was the kind of man Greg Lestrade was – a scoundrel who took pleasure in watching boys bully one another. The simmering anger within him threatened to boil over, but instead of instructing from where he stood in front of the goal, Greg moved until he was within the posts and netting itself. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, unclenching his gloved hands with a question mark for an expression.

Lestrade wasn’t even looking at him. “All right, forwards. Your job is to practice your aim. Your target is _me_. And I want nothing more than the best you’ve got. If I don’t have a black eye or bruises all over my body by the end of this, I’ll make sure Coach Wilby benches you for the rest of the season.”

Sherlock tried not to show that the blood in his veins had turned ice cold and that his pulse was racing. He was both angry at and afraid for his teacher, a man who, up until this moment, he’d regarded as little more than a pathetically optimistic youth trying to earn a living.

*   *   *

It was as though the torrent of footballs had created a storm and he was the eye. Sure enough, Brainless Wanker, Knob Head and Weeds for Teeth had taken Greg at his word, using every bit of force they’d had in their young bodies and aiming for the teacher’s head ninety percent of the time.

But something had turned over in Sherlock’s brain. It affected his reflexes in a way that was both fascinating and frightening to anyone who was watching. There was a preternatural calm that clouded his expression and one hundred percent of the time, he was catching and deflecting each ball as it headed for Lestrade.

Soon enough, a crowd had gathered. Supporters of the bully forwards had rounded up a sack of footballs, contributing to the blows and cheering the aggressors on. By now, Knob Head was red in the face from the constant exertion and Sherlock could sense a growing frustration on his part. As the noise intensified, he took Weeds for Teeth and Brainless Wanker aside for a short powwow.

Then, to Sherlock’s horror, he watched as they lined up three balls together, intending to fire them at the same time. He assumed that they would be aiming for Greg again, but then all eyes were on _him_ instead.

“You’re done for, Miss Shirleylocks – “

Sherlock tensed his body, awaiting the blows, but something crossed his vision in a flash. A streak of black and white got them all, one by one – a high catch, followed by a bodily deflection and a kick. Greg Lestrade had ended up on the grass in front of him, having twisted his hips with such flexibility and ease that it took everyone’s breath away.

Just as quickly, he got up, patted Sherlock on the shoulder and shared a private wink before turning round and dismissing the rest of the crowd, “That’s enough for today!” as well as squeezing the lad’s shoulder for good measure, “I think Master Holmes is our goalkeeper for the season. Thank you, Liam, Cameron and Edward, for making that possible.”

*   *   *

If Mummy sensed that her youngest boy was more relaxed to the point of being blissful when he came home from school, she didn’t mention it. At dinner, Sherlock appeared to be in a world of his own, ignoring the yammering reports of the day from Mycroft and staring off past his father’s shoulder into the garden, lost in thought. Perhaps it was a mathematical theorem or perhaps he was contemplating the theory of relativity, the second law of thermodynamics? She would’ve been more concerned, but every now and then, a tiny secret smile would curve his lips upwards and she decided to let it pass.

*   *   *

Football practice was held only four out of the five days of the school week and for the first few months, Sherlock tried to find out what Lestrade did on his day off. He found himself uncharacteristically shy about asking any of the adults; it was as though his admiration for this young man was a gift he had given to himself that no one else was allowed to know about or judge him for.

And then one day, he overheard two boys on the swim team talking about their substitute coach:

“He’s quite good, actually. Lean, has a lot of really good breathing tips. I think he’ll do all right until Mr. Leeds comes back from taking care of his mum – “

“What’s his name? I didn’t catch it; he talks so rapidly with that accent. Weird last name; sounded French. Like ‘Le – something,’ ‘Letrad’ –“

“You mean ‘Greg Lestrade,’” Sherlock blurted out.

“Yeah, that’s him!” The other lad confirmed, “You know him?”

“He’s the goalkeeping coach for football.”

“Wow. Talented fellow.”

“How often is he substitute coaching for Mr. Leeds?”

“Three days. He’s only available for us Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays.”

*   *   *

And this was how Sherlock Holmes became a fan of Sutton’s swim team – albeit in the most secretive way possible. He took to riding his bicycle to the school on the odd weekend afternoon, making his way to the pool and watching from afar. He made himself practically invisible as he watched Greg instruct the students from the sidelines, using his whistle to signal starts and stops of any various drills. He was no more strict and focused than he was with the football players. The only thing that was different was his attire. Rare was it that he had a vest on over his swim trunks. Greg Lestrade had no problem getting in the water with the team and correcting a stroke or demonstrating a turn. Sometimes, Sherlock would bring a sketchpad and a pencil, trying in vain to capture his teacher’s visage as he valiantly shaped young minds and bodies.

And then, after an hour, Sherlock would slip out, breathe in the fresh air free of chlorine, mount his bike and head for home, sketches safely tucked under one arm.

*

1989

By the time the meet season opened up for swimming in March, Sherlock had learned all the names of the students on the team and when his cover was blown by one of them waving to him as he sat with his sketchpad in the shadows, Coach Lestrade had caught the wave and when his eyes adjusted, he smiled in recognition and bounded over to say hello.

“Master Holmes, what a pleasant surprise! Wish you’d changed sports teams?” Greg teased. He then pulled over one of his star swimmers, “Jack, this here is the best goalkeeper I’ve ever coached; Master Sherlock, meet Jack Winston.”

Cheeks hot with embarrassment, Sherlock tried a weak smile for being caught and exchanged pleasantries until his jaw ached. After Jack left for the locker room, Greg took Sherlock aside.

“You know, I was wondering when you’d come up and say hello for months,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I can only guess this is better material for art class,” Greg indicated the sketchpad in Sherlock’s hand, “than anything in Cheam.”

“Y-Yes, sir.”

“Glad to see your head out of a book for once. You seem more at ease when you’re here.”

“I am, sir.”

“At ease enough to cheer us on our away meet in Brighton next week?”

“I-I, it would a pleasure, sir – “

“Lad, call me ‘Greg.’ When you call me ‘sir,’ it gives me the shivers and makes me think about my old headmaster,” his look turned grave, but his eyes shone with mischief.

“Yes s-, _Greg._ ”

On the bike ride home, Sherlock was already daydreaming about how he would soon be on a bus to Brighton with his favorite coach.

*   *   *

“So what do we know about the competition?”

Being on the football team had brought out an unusual kind of edge to Sherlock’s demeanor and having the good fortune of being seated in the same bus aisle with Greg on one side and Jack next to him, he needed some kind of idle talk to temper his excitement.

It turned out to be a good question because Lestrade and Jack started a lively conversation about the opposing team’s swimmers – who their weakest link was and any pertinent gossip (like recent injuries).

“Jack’s counterpart at Brighton College is a young swim prodigy by the name of Carl Powers – “

“He’s a bit quiet, like you, Sherlock,” Jack overlapped Greg.

“ – but very focused, fast and can stay under like a shark without so much as a gasp of air,” Lestrade finished.

“Remember, Greg, what Mark told us? Sherlock, we had a home meet in Cheam and it was delayed for almost an hour. We didn’t know why but there was a rumor going round that Carl’s favorite trainers were missing and he was refusing to start until they showed up!”

“His trainers? What’s so special about them?” Sherlock’s brows knitted.

“He probably believes that they’re lucky,” Greg explained, “And by the look of it, he takes great care of them. When they finally showed up, they nearly took out the eyes from how bright and sparkling clean they were.”

“Maybe I can pinch them this time?” Sherlock joked. He couldn’t help himself; he was so happy to have become part of the team in this way.

“Not unless we want to stay in Brighton forever!” Jack laughed.

*   *   *

It wasn’t forever, but it was five hours longer than it should have been, most of it filled with police lights, ambulance sirens and an evacuation of the pool where the meet was held.

The moment Carl Powers hit the water, his body seized up. Minutes later, he was dead. The cause of death was ruled a drowning, but Sherlock had a nagging feeling that foul play was involved. The only person who would listen to his theories was Greg because they never did find Carl’s prized trainers.

It was a day of tragedy that would change everything.

*

2010

“I’ll burn the _heart_ out of you.”

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one.”

“But we both know that’s not _quite_ true.”

*   *   *

After Moriarty had spared John and himself, Sherlock felt as though the anchor holding him still had been cut from him and his mind was drifting with the tide.

After all those years, after Greg had left coaching grammar school boys for a career as a police officer…

Sherlock had been right after all. But instead of feeling triumphant, he was tired, almost depressed. The adrenaline of that week had dissipated quickly and now he was left with a kind of crime investigation hangover. Still, this was not something he had the energy to talk about with John. He needed to be around the only person who could understand everything without him having to say anything.

And then Sherlock remembered that it was Friday afternoon, Lestrade’s day off.

*   *   *

It had been almost a decade since he’d set foot on the school grounds of his alma mater. The pitch was the same, closely trimmed and meticulously groomed. As he strode closer and closer, his great coat wrapped tight around him, he spied Greg lining up who could only be the goalkeeping candidates for that season and giving them a pep talk.

Sherlock sat on the bench a little ways from the team, surprisingly content to just observe, basking in the way that the familiarity of this scene calmed him so completely. So when Greg turned and caught him at the corner of his vision, it seemed natural that things could have continued from where they had left off, those many years before.

Greg hugged Sherlock with a depth that seemed from another point in time, “You all right, lad? What can I do you for?”

Sherlock’s eyes shone with unshed tears, “I thought you might need an assistant – “

Greg looked down and noticed that a pair of very old cleats was gripped in one slender white-knuckled grasp.

His smile in response was a kind of anointment and he turned to face his charges, “Boys! We have a renowned goalkeeper in our midst. Best one I ever coached and one I won’t see the likes of ever again.

“Master Holmes, do what you will.”

 

FIN


End file.
